War, Misery and Hope
by MusicIsMyLife1214000
Summary: Jace was a soldier, fighting against the Nazis. His life had no purpose. Had no direction... He thought he could solve that if he joined the ranks. But when he loses his hand, how will that affect him? One-shot written for Remembrance Day. Credits to YayPercabeth123!


I didn't think I was going to end up like this. I was cocky. Over-confident. And that's how I became disabled. Crippled.

Without a hand.

You may think it's nothing – for a hand is not like a leg, and you might think at least I escaped with my life.

But my hands… What is a singer, without his voice? What is a runner, without his legs? What is a reader, without his eyes?

What is a pianist, without his hands?

I was nothing.

I was one of the best soldiers America had ever seen. The generals and commanders loved me. I was the top rank.

But I also was the first line.

I rushed into danger recklessly, shooting at enemies without mercy. My heart had grown cold with all the war I'd seen. My family was reduced to shambles and now, all I had left was my courage and my piano.

I was reckless in Auschwitz. I was stupid and I was dumb. There were people being shipped towards these chambers – the General had told me about them. They killed Jewish people in there. My heart had lurched and clenched when I saw people walking towards those chambers from my hideout. But I had a mission. I could not fail. I shut down the emotions in my heart and focused intently on my target.

An old man dropped dead in the group that was walking towards the chambers of gas. A Nazi soldier sneered and kicked the dead man's side. I winced. The Nazi soldier was heartless. I shivered, thinking that I would end up like the Nazi as well. Stone cold and without a care in the world. Was I that heartless? Was I as cold as the soldier was?

Another person dropped dead. This time, it was a boy, no older than I was. And I was only sixteen. I had snuck into the army when the last of my family succumbed to disease. I thought I could become something in the army. And I had… hadn't I?

I wondered if the boy's family was in that group that was shuffling slowly towards their death. Another boy in the group kept shooting the dead body looks. He must have been the dead boy's friend for the other people did not pay attention to the dead bodies. They were too scared for themselves. I crept closer to the moving group. My partner, Jonathan, smacked my arm. "Where are you going? We're supposed to wait for the signal?"

I ignored him. The boy who had lost his friend began to cry, but he was not ashamed of his tears.

A soldier hit him. "Do not mourn for his life. Mourn for yours, because yours is at an end," the soldier laughed. He spoke in fluent German and I felt sick. I was part German. His father had hailed from a rich German family and had taught me the language. I knew that there were Germans out there with warm hearts and loving attitudes, but these soldiers were brainwashed.

"Jace Morgenstern! Do you want to die, or what?" Jonathan hissed.

I slid my knife out of my holster into my hand. The General said I was an old soul, preferring knives and swords and shields, instead of guns and cannons. But I always thought using guns were cheating.

With sharpened aim, I flung the knife swiftly and silently at a Nazi soldier – the one who had hit the poor boy for crying for his dead friend. The knife sank into the Nazi's back and the Nazi fell, dead as a doornail.

The whole group stopped moving. One of the Nazi's comrades ran to his side, tears running down his face. "My friend, my dear friend! Who did this to you?" he cried, hugging the dead body to his chest. I could feel no pity.

"Jace, you idiot!" Jonathan hissed.

"Shut up, or we both will be killed," I said calmly. My fear had been drained away, replace with hatred and anger.

A horn sounded in the distance. That was the signal. I flung another knife at the Nazi who mourned his friend. The knife sank into his forehead, killing him effectively. A gun shot sounded in the air. I narrowly missed being shot and glared at the man who tried to shoot me. The Nazi stood there, tall and unflinching. Jonathan shot him quickly.

We finished off the rest of the Nazis there and Jonathan went to search for nearby Nazis to shoot while I protected the Jews.

For a major prison – Auschwitz was certainly easy to infiltrate. I clenched my fists. _Or the Nazis simply thought no one would dare defy them. _

The boy who lost his friend stepped out of the group and faced me. He was all skin and bones and his white skin looked malnourished. He stood straight and tall, as if trying to intimidate me. "What are you going to do to us?" he asked. His voice was weak and he croaked, but he tried to block the group as best as he could.

He could barely stand but he was trying to protect his fellow Jews. I raised an eyebrow. I was armed, I was fed and I was strong. I looked at the other Jews. They were afraid of me. Did I really look as frightening as the dead Nazis did? I tried to soften my eyes. "I'm here to save you," I tried to say.

"Jace we have to run!" Jonathan came back, sprinting towards us. I didn't want to run. That would be cowardly. "Orders from the General to leave now!"

I bit my lip. Why would we leave now? Jonathan and I were the best soldiers in our troop. Then I discovered the fifty or so men a couple hundred metres from Jonathan, trying their best to shoot him.

"Run!" I shouted, and I herded the Jews towards the escape hole in the fence we had made earlier. Jonathan led the Jews towards freedom while I stayed behind the group, shooting at the Nazis. I managed to kill a few, but unfortunately, they managed to kill some of the Jews as well.

Finally, we made it to the hole in the fence and I ushered the Jews out. "Jonathan, take them and go!" I said to my partner. Jonathan nodded and left me at the fence, ready to take on death and the Nazis that came with it. We knew our duty. We knew that I wasn't going to make it. I kept shooting at the advancing enemies and I noticed a skinny boy, standing next to me, quivering.

The clip emptied and I threw the gun aside and took out two from my thigh holsters. With both hands, I shot at the Nazis coming. I roared in pain as a bullet entered my leg. I took a gun from my holster on my bicep and handed it to the boy next to me. "Take the safety off and just shoot!" I shouted.

The boy nodded, wincing. Luckily, he seemed to pick it up quick, watching me. A lot of his shots were off-target, but at least he hit some people. The boy winced at every life he took, but I was hardened. My emotions were shut down and my adrenaline was going on high.

I could see some of my fellow troop members shooting at them as well. There was only three Nazis left and they were upon us. Guns were too hard to use at this range and I slid out my knives and killed one immediately. The Nazi fell to the floor, his eyes lifeless. The boy stared at the dead Nazi in horror, frozen. A tear slid out of his eye. He couldn't seriously be crying for a Nazi, could he?

The other two Nazis managed to wrestle my guns away from me, but I managed to sock one in the face and stabbed him. The last one was incredibly wary and took out the knife from his fallen comrade. He was not awkward with the weapon, but did not display the skill I possessed. The wound in my leg throbbed and I began to feel dizzier and dizzier. I stumbled, grabbing onto the fence for balance. The Jewish boy still held the gun in his hands and the Nazi thought he was a bigger threat. He went for the boy, who was so scared he dropped the weapon. As the Nazi slashed down, I blocked the knife with my wrist.

I screamed and screamed as the knife dug into my wrist, deeper and deeper it went. A loud bang went off.

The Nazi fell dead at my feet, a bullet wound in his chest. The Jewish boy had a gun in his hands. I fell over, tired and bloody. My fellow American soldiers swarmed towards me, taking me towards safety. And I passed out, the image of crying Jewish eyes firmly imprinted in my mind.

…

When I woke up, I found a Jewish boy next to my cot. I was the infirmary. He blinked once. Twice. Thrice. "You're awake," he said in perfect English. "I'm Simon."

This time, it was me who blinked once. Twice. Thrice.

"He'd better be," came a drawl. At the end of my cot was a woman with red hair and green eyes – Clarissa. "I spent way too much time on him for him not to be awake."

Clarissa. I smirked. "Playing nurse now, are we, Clary?"

"Shut up, Jace. You're lucky my brother is fine, or else I wouldn't be here," Clary scowled. "And don't call me Clary!"

"You two know each other?" the Jew asked.

Clary nodded. "Unfortunately. He's my brother's best friend. We're all… sixteen," Clary said, her voice hushed. "Lucky I am a great nurse," Clary said smugly.

"And I'm a great soldier with my wicked knife throwing and my handsome…" my voice faded. Clary and the Jew looked down. I reached for Clary, one of my good friends and I stopped. My right hand.

It was gone.

I stared blankly at the stump at my wrist. My hand was gone.

"You saved me," Simon said, looking at his lap. "And because of me, your hand is gone. I am so sorry. I owe you a great debt. May God grant you mercy…"

"I don't believe in God," I said weakly. "If God was real, He wouldn't have let my hand become like this."

The Jew looked up. "Perhaps it is part of His plan…"

"What plan?" I said bitterly. "My hand is _gone_."

"Jace…" Clary said gently.

"My hand is gone, Clarissa!" I shouted. "It's gone! Do you not understand?" I looked to the Jew with a hard stare. "It is because of you!"

Simon looked down. "I'm so sorry. Forgive me, Lord," he whispered. "Forgive me my debt, Jace."

"Please, just leave," I said.

_What is a singer, without his voice? What is a runner, without his legs? What is a reader, without his eyes?_

_ What is a pianist, without his hands?_

Simon left the infirmary. "How long? How long was I here for?" I asked Clary.

"Two weeks," Clary replied. I stared at my hands. Or _hand._ I could not go into war anymore. I could not play my music. I had _nothing._

…

The next couple months were spent back in America. I could not fight anymore so I was no longer a soldier. Clary and Jonathan came home with me because their age was discovered. _Simon_ unfortunately, came too because he had no family – just like me. Jocelyn – Clary and Jonathan's mom – didn't mind. She was big on having her kids make their own decisions. I stayed with them, careful to never be in Simon's presence for too long.

Misery and pain filled me. The ghost of my right hand stayed with me.

In my neighbourhood, I was the hero for a week, along with Jonathan and Clary, but in the end, we were simply yesterday's news. I had nothing to do. I was no longer fighting wars or writing songs. Music was misery for me now. Never joy.

I stayed in the piano room for most of the time. I would play some notes on the piano with my left hand, but it never sounded right without my other hand, leading the melody. So I burned my books. I burned my music. And I tossed it all into the fireplace. After, I cried, regretting my actions. Clary found me, sitting alone in front of the fireplace, my cheeks wet and shirt stained.

She sat beside me and placed an arm around me. "It will all get better," she whispered. She chanted it like a mantra. I placed my head on her shoulder and shut my eyes. Music. Music…

I had learned music from my darling mother. She was beautiful and coveted among men and I loved her so much. Her voice was sweet and fingers slim and long… She taught me how to play the piano and how to cherish it. My father had bought me a gorgeous, white grand piano. He told me that he had serenaded my mother with music and won her over with song.

Music was in my blood. It was how I heard my mother's soft singing and my father's words of encouragement. My mother had died of sickness when I was fourteen and my father followed soon thereafter and I was left alone. But I still had music. I joined the army with Jonathan when we were fifteen. We trained for a year before they sent us out into war. Clary followed us.

I survived the tragedies of war because of music. But my heart had hardened.

Now, the steel walls were going up again, just like they did when my parents had died. Just like they did when I first killed a human being. Just like they did when I found out I lost my hand.

I could not bear to part with my piano but I could not bear to look at it.

I sat at the fireplace, staring at the flames for hours. And Clary stayed with me. "You know you will always have me and Jonathan. Simon too."

"Simon," I sneered. "He did this to me." Clary shook my shoulders.

"He did not! I believe that God…"

"Not you too!" I complained.

"Jace," Clary said softly. "You lost a hand, but I'm sure there is good reason for it."

"I have nothing, Clary," I said.

"You have me. You have Jonathan. We are not nothing. We will always be here for you, no matter what you do."

Her words sank in and I continued to look at the fireplace, a contemplative look in my eyes. Clary kissed my cheek gently and my train of thought froze. "You'll always have me," she whispered. And she stood up and exited.

…

So for her, I began to practice. My stump of a hand and my left hand. Music was heard again and I talked to Simon. Everything seemed to be going back on track. It was so difficult playing music. I tried my best but I never will be at my former level. A hole in my chest flared open every time I thought of it. But it was Clary, Jonathan and _Simon _who helped me through it, as surprising as it is.

Simon spoke of mercy and of grace and of _God_. He surprised me when he spoke of Jesus as well. "Jesus? I thought Jews didn't believe in Christ," I said, eyes widened.

"I'm a rebel," Simon shrugged. "I'm a _reformed_ Jew."

And slowly my heart began to change.

It was a slow process. It was difficult, it was challenging, it was _hard._

But in the end, I was able to serenade Clary with my voice and with my music. I played the wrong note at times and I had played an incredibly easy piece. But still, Clary had cried.

And she decided to marry me after all.

It is so difficult to get back up after you've dug yourself a hole, like I had. But there are always people who are there for you. To support you. And maybe Simon was right. God had a plan for me, perhaps. As I grew older, I spoke to former soldiers who had lost hope in themselves. I renewed hope for them. A spark had filled me. And the spark ignited and a fire blazed.

God bless those who lost their lives. God bless those who made sacrifices. And God bless those who lost hope because there is always hope for those who look for it.

**The ending is rushed, but I hope you liked it. Written for Remembrance Day.**

**Credits to YayPercabeth123 for giving me the idea of a Jace in war! **


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